


On the Road Again

by whispered_story



Series: Lingerie Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean in Panties, M/M, Season/Series 01, past crossdressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Stanford, Sam is plagued by nightmares and guilt and his feelings for Dean. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 31/5/2012]</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Road Again

For the first few weeks after Stanford, Sam can't stop looking at Dean. 

Dean's a part of him, always was and always will be, but after being apart for so long – _too long_ \- Sam feels like he's forgotten all the tiny details that make up Dean. Now that he is right there, all the time, it feels like a punch in the gut to be reminded of every tiny thing that Sam had forgotten. The exact formation of the freckles spattered over Dean's nose. His lashes that seem too long when his eyes flutter close, making Sam want to reach out and touch them. How Dean always smells of gunpowder and machine oil and that spicy aftershave he started using when he was 17. The way he clenches his jaw, muscles ticking, when he's pissed off, and how Sam's name sounds both teasing and fond when Dean says it. 

Most of all, Sam's forgotten that his heart clenches every time he looks at Dean. It's both painful and exhilarating, and his mind shuts everything else out then, his world narrowing down to just DeanDean _Dean_.

So he watches, remembers, reacquaints himself with Dean, and catalogues all the differences. The way Dean looks older now, jaw a little sharper, crinkles around his eyes that weren't there before. A bit harder, underneath the careful pretense of aloofness.

Sometimes, Sam lets himself remember the things he isn't supposed to know about Dean, too. He remembers the way Dean had looked sprawled out on his small twin bed, his costume scattered on the floor, strawberry lip gloss and eyeliner smeared. He remembers how Dean kissed him, eager and desperate, and the way he'd smiled sleepily at Sam afterward. He remembers the way Dean had felt, had tasted, had sounded, and the feeling of wrongness is drowned out by the irrefutable certainty that nothing in Sam's life had ever felt as right as that night he'd spent with Dean.

Dean seems to be ignoring Sam's gaze, eyes on the road and singing along to music. But sometimes, when Sam is not looking, he swears he catches Dean turning his head toward him from the corner of his eye.

+

Most nights Sam dreams of Jess. Of her smile, her blonde, soft hair, the sound of her voice. Of her body going up in flames, Sam frozen and unable to do anything to save her.

Sometimes Jess turns to him with a sad smile before she goes up in flames. 

"You never would have stayed with me," she says, and there's a trace of accusation in her melodic voice. "You never could have loved me the way you love him."

Those are the worst dreams, and Sam hates himself for turning to the twin bed across the room when he wakes up from them, checking if Dean's there, before feeling the sharp pain of losing Jess settle over him.

He rarely talked about Dean, but he wonders if Jess had known that a part of Sam had always belonged to someone else, never to her.

+

"You don't sleep enough," Dean says after a few weeks on the road.

Sam shrugs and ignores him. Ignores the way his eyes feel as heavy as his heart these days. He'll get a coffee the next time they stop for gas. Something extra strong, maybe, to wake him up.

"I need to you be focused, Sam," Dean says.

 _I worry_ , Sam hears, and he gives Dean a small smile.

+

Six weeks after leaving Palo Alto, Sam dreams about Dean for the first time.

They're at a lake, Dean sitting on a log, his back turned to Sam. His shoulders are shaking, and Sam doesn't know if he's crying or laughing. No sound is coming from Dean, and Sam finds himself unable to move, to get to him.

"Dean," he says.

Dean doesn't move; doesn't show any sign that he heard Sam.

"Dean," he tries again. "Dean."

When Dean turns around, his face is somber. There are no traces of tears, nor laughter. His lips glisten a little, puffy and smeared with lip gloss. Smeared, Sam knows, from the kisses they'd shared, from Sam's lips, his teeth.

"What d'you say? Wanna see if we can pull this off?" Dean asks. He sounds far away, his voice serious instead of the teasing tone he'd used the night he'd been in Sam's dorm and asked those exact questions.

"Think we can, Sammy?" Dean asks now. "Make people believe you feel that way about me?"

 _I didn't have to pretend_ , Sam wants to say. _It was never pretending for me._

"Dean," is all that comes out. Dean smiles, but it looks like a grimace.

+

They drive away from Lawrence with a box of old photos, memorabilia of a life Sam never had.

He rests his forehead against the window, looks at the houses passing in a blur, becoming fewer and fewer the further they drive.

There's nothing but the open stretch of the road when Sam feels a soft brush of Dean's hand against his leg. He looks down at Dean's hand, resting on the empty space between them, tips of his pinkie and ring finger pressed against Sam's thigh. Sam lets his hand drop down, his own pinkie covering Dean's, curling it in a little. Dean doesn't pull away, his eyes fixed on the road, and Sam smiles.

+

"Nightmare?" Dean asks unnecessarily when Sam stumbles out of his bed that night.

He sounds wide awake, like he hasn't been sleeping, and it takes a moment for Sam to remember where he is, who he's with.

"Yeah," he says.

"About—" Dean starts, but trails off. 

_Jess_ , Sam knows Dean wants to ask, but it's not something either of them talk about. Not since the first few days after the fire, not when it can be avoided. Sam figures they both have their reasons for not wanting to talk about her, but he wonders if they're really all that different. 

"No," he says. "No, nothing like that."

Not really, anyway. It had been about Dean. The lake again. But Sam's not sure if that dream is about him and Dean or him and Jess – about how guilty he feels for loving Dean, having loved Dean all this time--or about how guilty he feels for not having been able to love Jess as much as she deserved _because_ of Dean. 

If Sam were asked to put it all into words – this whole tangle of feelings he had, _has_ , for Dean and Jess – he'd say that Jess had been his world. And she really had been – smart and beautiful and everything Sam had always longed for. But Dean has always been his universe. So much more, so much bigger than anything else in Sam's life, all-encompassing and wrapped around everything else Sam felt.

"Wanna--," Dean starts, voice sounding strained.

Sam stands in the middle of the room in his boxers and a t-shirt, shivering a little and not sure where to go. 

"What?" he prompts.

"Wanna share?" Dean asks after a moment of hesitation. In the murky light coming in from the parking lot through too thin curtains, Sam can see Dean move, lift the sheets.

Sam thinks he probably shouldn't, should get a glass of water and return to his own bed, but his feet move before he can tell his body not to. He slips under the sheets next to Dean, barely enough space for both of them in the tiny bed. It's too warm, Dean's body radiating heat, and Sam's mind flashes to the night at the party, Dean pressing his body against Sam's, the way they had fit together perfectly.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean whispers. There's a brush of Dean's fingers down his arms, a ghost of a touch, and Sam closes his eyes and tries not to think of the last time they shared a bed and how he'd woken up alone.

+

When Sam steps out of the shower the next day, Dean is sitting on the counter, in small space between the wall and the sink. He's wearing a pair of jeans and an old t-shirt, more gray than black these days, and his bare feet are hovering a few inches above the ground, crossed at his ankles.

"Dean," Sam says, startled, and his fingers curl around the knot holding the towel around his waist together.

Dean looks at him, teeth chewing down on his lower lip.

"Is something wrong?" Sam asks.

"No," Dean says, releasing his lip. It's a deep pink, a little bruised from Dean's teeth, and it makes Sam's stomach swoop hotly.

"I went to get coffee," Dean continues. "Only got one at first, and I was almost out the door before I remembered that I needed to buy two. I got used to hunting alone most of the time."

"Yeah," Sam says, wryly. He's not sure he ever got used to turning around and not finding Dean right there next to him, yet he thinks he's forgotten what it's like to have Dean right there all the time. 

Dean exhales, and it sounds loud in the room. He hops of the counter and smiles.

"I thought maybe we could stay for another day or two. I skimmed the papers, but I didn't find anything worth checking out," he says with a shrug. "And there's this town fair here. The girl at the coffee shop told me. It's tiny, but they'll sell food on the street, and there's a maze, and music and stuff."

"Okay," Sam agrees slowly.

Dean is a lot like John – restless, always eager to get away, never staying somewhere for too long if he doesn't have to. It doesn't matter if he has a place to get to or not, but Dean prefers to be on the road, always moving.

"Thought it'd be nice," Dean says, as if Sam hasn't already agreed to stay.

"Okay," Sam repeats. He grips his towel a little tighter, and Dean steps forward. Hesitancy crosses his face for a split moment before he leans up and kisses Sam. Dean's lips are soft against his, but the kiss feels determined. Stubborn. Like Dean himself.

Sam lets go of his towel, doesn't care if it'll end up coming loose, and kisses Dean back, one hand cradling Dean's jaw.

+

They have corn dogs and coffee, and then they share a piece of rhubarb pie and another piece of strawberry pie, watching children with their parents and groups of teenagers go into the maze, laughing and chattering when they emerge again. 

"Wanna try?" Dean asks, wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

"Sure," Sam says with a shrug. 

It hasn't taken most of the people going in more than ten minutes, but Sam feels like they're in the maze forever, taking every wrong turn one can. The third time they hit a dead end, Dean laughs and presses his face against Sam's arm to muffle the sound.

There's distant screeching from a group of children, and Dean turns his face up, the sun making his skin glow. He looks years younger and Sam's heart clenches.

"We're really not good at this," Dean says, and Sam kisses him. He hopes no one will find them like this, but doesn't care enough to stop.

+

They don't talk about it.

For three weeks they don't take things much further than kissing. They jerk each other off once in the backseat of the Impala when they spend a night in the car, parked behind bushes and shrubbery next to the empty highway. 

The night air is chilly on Sam's naked legs and arms, but his t-shirt is clinging to him with sweat. Dean's kisses are deep, a bit too urgent, but his hand is slow and steady as he fists Sam's cock. 

Sam comes all over Dean's hand, fingers digging into Dean's shoulder blades, and when he reciprocates, Dean buries his face in the crook of his neck, harsh panting the only noise he's making.

In motel rooms, they go to sleep in separate beds, but most nights when Sam wakes up from a nightmare he doesn't hesitate to crawl into Dean's bed, pressing close and letting the warm weight of Dean's body against his calm him down.

+

It doesn't feel like things have changed much, but everything feels different. Better. Sam feels calmer with each day that passes, a little happier. Normal. Or what passes for normal when you not only hunt monsters, but are in love with a person who you probably shouldn't be in love with. When all you have is this – a car, a trunk full of weapons, the one person you love.

+

They burn a cursed book in Louisiana, kill a chupacabra in New Mexico, an angry spirit in Oklahoma. They flinch every time one of their phones rings-- pretending they're not getting worried when it's not from their dad-- and don't touch or kiss for a few hours afterward. 

In Rock Springs, the motel they stop at for the night only has a room with a king bed left, and Dean pretends to be disgruntled, like Sam wouldn't have ended up joining him in the middle of the night anyway.

They stay on their sides of the bed at first, Sam researching three women that have gone missing half a day drive away, while Dean channel surfs. He stops on some softcore porn flick eventually, and when Sam glances up with a frown there are two girls in their late twenties making out on TV, both in panties and lacy bras. 

"I'm trying to work here," he says.

"To each his own," Dean replies, but the smile he shoots Sam is soft and fond.

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to clicking his way through newspaper articles.

"Hey, Sam," Dean says a few minutes later.

Sam looks up at Dean.

"What?"

"You—you miss that?" Dean asks, waving his hand at the TV. 

Sam looks at it briefly. Both women have both lost their bras now, one straddling the other one's lap.

"Haven't had much lesbian sex yet," he replies smartly, and Dean punches him in the arm.

"Not much, huh? But some?" Dean asks. "Are you finally admitting you're a girl?"

"Maybe I went through a phase in college where I had lots of threesomes," Sam suggests. 

Dean huffs, but Sam sees the way he rolls his lower lip in and bites down on it, like he's picturing it.

"Perv," Sam teases, and flicks Dean's ear before going back to reading.

"I have a pair," Dean says after a moment and changes the channel, stops at a Western.

"A pair of what?" Sam asks, looking up again. Dean's cheeks are a little flushed, the light of the TV playing across his face.

Dean doesn't answer for a moment, then shrugs. "Panties," he says. "They were two for one."

Sam doesn't ask. Doesn't have to. Knows Dean is referring to the pair he wore that night, under the skirt. The ones Sam had slid down Dean's body, eyes wide, Dean smirking at him, telling him he hadn't thought Sam would like that. Sam thinks there isn't any way in which he wouldn't like Dean, wouldn't want him.

"Black?" Sam asks, not sure what else to say. His heart speeds up a little when Dean nods. 

Dean stretches his legs out on the bed, crosses his legs at the ankles. "I could wear them some time," he says, voice casual but Sam can tell it takes some effort. "If you wanted."

Sam's breath catches in his throat, eyes studying Dean's profile for a long moment. He closes his laptop slowly, puts it aside onto the nightstand and crawls to the other side of the bed.

"Turn off the TV," he murmurs, and Dean turns his face toward him.

"Yeah?" he asks, but he turns the TV off without further prompting. 

The remote clatters to the floor when Sam straddles Dean, and Dean chuckles softly. He cups the back of Sam's thighs, hands broad and warm through Sam's jeans, and tilts his head up when Sam leans down for a kiss. He smiles against Sam's lips, and lets Sam push him back, undress him and manhandle him until Sam has him exactly like he wants him.

"Don't move. Yeah?" Sam asks when he goes to get lube and condoms from Dean's duffel, and Dean laughs.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, voice light and teasing. When Sam returns to the bed, kneeling between Dean's legs, Dean pulls Sam on top of him and into another kiss.

It's so much like Sam remembers, and yet nothing like it. Dean flinches when Sam slides a slick, cold finger over his entrance, but spreads his legs easily. He makes the same soft noise Sam remembers, the ones he couldn't forget – the soft gasp when Sam first pushes in, the breathy moans falling from his lips with each of Sam's thrusts, the hitch in his breath when he comes. He still feels hot and tight and perfect, better than anything Sam has ever felt. But this time there's no taste of artificial strawberry masking their kisses, no muffled noises of other students in the hallway, no worry that Dean will leave, no desperation, no surprise about how they'd gotten here.

And when they curl up under the sheets afterward, Dean spooning Sam and one hand under the pillow above Sam's head where he keeps his gun, Sam knows that he'll wake up with Dean still right there the next morning.

"You weren't lying about the panties, right?" Sam asks, voice laced with sleep.

Dean hums under his breath, kisses Sam's jaw. "I'll show them to you tomorrow," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to settle warmly on Sam's stomach. "Sleep."

Sam covers Dean's hand with his for a moment, squeezes it, and lets himself drift off.

For the first time since leaving California, Sam doesn't have a nightmare. 

He dreams he's swimming in a lake. It's the lake from his other dreams, water cool and nice. When he turns around, Dean is right there, smiling and splashing water into Sam's face.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says. "We can pull this off, right? You and me?"

"Yeah," Sam says, treading water, and he smiles back.

Dean looks happy, his hair a little longer and the angles of his face a little softer. "Yeah," he repeats. "Always knew we could."


End file.
